Scour as many thrift shops as it took to find the exact purple coat my grandmother used to wear.

Interview boys about their dogs.

Approach strangers who vaguely resemble my exes and try to make it work.

Shoplift petty items, return them a few hours later, and journal about my feelings.

Order from Graeter’s, the ice cream place in my hometown in Ohio, and have it rush delivered on dry ice to my parents’ house down the street.

Stop being so scared.

Find the people in the building next door whose apartment looks directly into mine, convince them to string a tin-can telephone from their window through mine, and pitch the story to Gawker.

Film a cool montage of two dudes getting out of a car, walking in tandem, and nonchalantly tossing things to each other, including: keys, a beer, a football, a bunny, a handful of Raisin Bran, another set of keys.

Play Edward 40-hands on top of a double-decker sightseeing tour bus.

Go to a yoga class and just sit there eating a club sandwich.

Create a fake budget for a fake person on Mint.com and keep it to myself.

Use a fanny pack to create a time capsule and fill it with:

letters written on restaurant guest checks mounted on cardstock

fortune cookies with customized messages on the inside

a photo of three-year-old me rocking a blonde, curly mullet

Mail it to a former Hebrew school classmate and ask her to hold it for me until August 10, 2064.

Throw my TV into a river and see if I miss it.

Visit a Sikh temple and just ask them everything.

Save a horse, ride a cowboy.

Write the opposite of a suicide note — a note about why I decided to keep living today.

Ben Kassoy unfortunately does not still rock a blonde, curly mullet. Still, you should follow him on Twitter and like him on Facebook.

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